The Ashes Wedged Between The Soil.
[People. People everywhere – commuting on foot, in car – attempting to cross the street, but constantly keeping an eye on the traffic, so as to not get smashed to smithereens by an impatient, suicidal taxi cab driver. Unknown city – a concrete jungle jamming jubilantly with things to do and places to see. Zappa, on the other hand, sits on the edge of the top of a towering building – his legs dangling. He looks down at the chaos – ants a-marching, bees a-working. He takes a hit of his joint and holds it in for as long as possible.]
“What are they good for? Incompetent filth, subconsciously distracted by the poison of material things for the sake of keeping up with the trendy bars that are set. Consciously, they’re scared. They’re utterly terrified about the one thing they’ve no immediate answer for. Life. What are we doing here? Why are we on this rock – and what has led them to maintain the journey beyond the merciless truth that they’re trapped? No exit on this airplane, man. They don’t want to dwell on that though, right? If they do, what happens? Panic attacks, anxiety meltdowns, triggered emotions that turn their sunny days into terminal overcast. They know no better though, do they? They simply slide out of their mother’s womb and gradually begin to realize that from the moment their eyes open, their sole purpose is to overlook and survive.
There’s no objection when it comes to terrestrial fate, man. Things are how they are – and that’s all there is to it. They use their metaphorical shell to shroud behind when the world decides to vomit up some reality – you are here forever, and there’s no getting out of it. So what do you do? You shove your face into a cell phone, take vacations to exotic locations as a way to let your mind slip, you feed off of the fame of your generation’s past – and let the obnoxious greed and superiority complex blind you from the fact that one day? You’ll be dead and gone – nothing but ashes wedged between layers of soil that’s so far deep into the crust of your planet, no one will bother to differentiate you from the grime between the grooves at the bottom of their shoes.
Once an Earthwalker – always an earthwalker, man. You nod your head towards the state of tolerance that’s overtaking your soul, and just survive. Ethan inherited every bit of the traumatic brain injury that his Dad, and every other drone of the pale blue dot, has – you soak up the sun until the forever night shows its face. One day, you’ll be the ashes wedged between the soil, and your status won’t matter anymore. They’ll take the time to grieve at your funeral, laugh at a few of the funny things that you did while you were around, but that eulogy has its own doomsday clock.
You and Trebol? People like you don’t last, man. You cover up the reality of it all by simply finding ways to move forward in life – whether that be through perseverance of your physical stature’s limitations, or to assume the role of God’s gift. In the end, you fear the moment that your food for the nightcrawlers – because who knows what comes after this? For as little as both of you know about what lies beyond the sky that shields all of you from a great escape, would it really matter if you did?
Earthwalkers – bloated like balloons, full of aspirations, ambitions, and a whole slue of nonsensical goals to get away from the bottom line. And what is that bottom line? I am your God. I am everything that you wish you could be, but there’s no escape from the chains of the planet you exist upon.
And you know what? There’s no escape from me.”
[Zappa laughs hysterically, kicking feet around, before dropping his joint. As it continues to fall, he starts counting — “1, 2, 3 – Boom.”]